End of the Line
by Bloodshot Eyes
Summary: A sequel of sorts to "Last Stop at the End of the World". L ponders what brought him to this place as he waits for the end, only to find that it isn't what he's imagined. "Happiness" will cost him more than time. Is this a price he's willing to pay?
1. The Gulf Between Worlds

A/N – This is one of several possibilities I envisioned to continue my story "Last Stop at the End of the World". You MUST read that one first to understand this, and DO NOT read this one if you liked the ambiguity of the ending. This is like a deleted scene: the story is part of a separate universe and in no way affects any possibilities that you can hypothesize about from the first.

I'm operating on serious sleep deprivation and I'm fighting those sleep aids I took in order to induce slumber so this might not make much sense. However, inspiration strikes at the most inopportune times so I shall write more even if the original story didn't need it.

* * *

**End of the Line**

* * *

"_No matter what you do while you're alive, everybody goes to the same place once you die. Death is equal." – Ryuk_

-

-

It's cold, it's wet, and it's dreary, this land of eternal smoke and mist.

That's nothing new.

Has it been years since Matt left? He didn't even realize the knowledge that another person was here was welcome until it was gone. It figures. He didn't take advantage of it while it was here and now it's gone.

Like so many other things.

He leans to rest his head against the pillar behind him only to find that it, too, has vanished into the swirling vapors around him. His head connects with the nothingness and he falls, catching himself on his elbows. The bony protuberances grate harshly against the cement, ripping holes into his shirt, but pain is easy enough to ignore when he knows it's not real. The tears in his shirt vanish as he sits back up and brushes imaginary dirt from them.

It's not fair for him to wish Matt was back. He deserves his happiness after all this wasted time, just as Mello does. They were cogs in the same machine that he was once a part of, after all.

That's all any of them are, really. Near would have referred to them all as puzzle pieces, Mello would have called them disposable, and Matt would have seen them as side characters, the background cast of some role-playing game. They weren't real people, only tools created to accomplish specific tasks.

Pain and injury are only memories here and the oblivion makes it so much easier to see everything with emotionless, detached logic. There is no sadness or depression in seeing that the sum total of one's existence on earth was only to fulfill certain tasks, to solve certain puzzles…

To bring certain people to justice.

Justice - such a subjective yet global concept. Its very nature is at odds with itself. Justice demands decisive, unflinching results for actions committed for reasons that aren't always black and white. "Justice" is great in theory and in discussions, but it allows no room for mercy, for forgiveness.

Petty human concepts that they are.

Pity that he was, and still is, human after all.

He had tried for years when he was alive to convince himself that he was just a machine, operating at inhuman speeds and storing absurd amounts of information with little to no sleep for over 30 hours at a time. He had a remarkable lack of those trifling social qualities and tendencies that lesser beings required in order to cooperate, to work together. He didn't need to cooperate with anyone since they, being human, could not work on the same level as he could and were therefore unnecessary.

Well, almost all of them.

_He_ was the only exception. It was only fitting that the person to whom he was sent to bring to "justice" would end up bringing about his own demise.

There is no more feeling and no more pain at the thought. Such a lengthy period in limbo, in this featureless purgatory, would allow anyone transcendence over such human emotions, if he ever had them in the first place.

One can only lie to oneself for so long.

Why would he still be waiting here if not for someone? He let the ferry depart so long ago; he watched the lantern bobbing across the dark water as the light faded. Before Matt, the last words he had spoken had been to the faceless ferryman, telling him to go. He had sat down here and resolved himself to waiting, waiting, forever if need be.

Every time he hears someone else arrive, he lets himself fade into the mists around him as they are replaced with whatever version of limbo the newest visitor creates. He does not want them to see him even if he wants to observe them. He can apparently only see those he knew in life. Yagami Soichiro came and went some time ago, followed by Matt and Mello.

_He_ still lingers, but at least now he knows that it won't be much longer. Near is no fool even if he is young, and he has the determination to see this project through. He won't let emotion or hesitation stop him.

L curls in tighter on himself and draws nonsense on the featureless surface before him, fingers tracing circles and other random shapes. It is not distracting enough to make him forget his own failure.

_Damn_ that boy.

_**Damn**_ Yagami Light to every hell that ever existed in anyone's imagination.

Even as the thought crosses his mind, he laughs. It shouldn't be possible for two such dichotomous emotions to exist simultaneously, but this place offers nothing for emotion to cling to and the useless feeling slides away. He wraps the other arm around himself and puts his head down, preparing again for the endless wait when the sound comes, shattering his peace and driving away human and machine thoughts alike.

"L?"

* * *

It's not him.

It's not _him_, and the thought is so shocking that he doesn't even register who is standing before him. It takes far too long to recognize him.

"Near?" His voice asks even if he doesn't consciously form the word. It slips from his lips.

"L." Near repeats dispassionately, standing some distance away in the huge, empty room that he created. He is older, much older, but his face retains the youthful innocence that he feigned when younger. "What are you doing here?"

A door opens at the far end of the room and light spills out, a warm golden glow that promises something better than this emptiness. Near glances at it for a moment and looks back at L, his head tilting as he studies the older man. L shifts and stands for he does not enjoy being the one observed. At least now he has the height advantage.

"I'm waiting for something."

"It's over." Near speaks in a monotone, as if the information never meant anything to him. "It ended shortly after Matt and Mello died. You don't have to wait anymore."

"How did it happen?" L leans against the wall behind him. Near seems in no hurry to leave, after all.

"I used information that Mello provided to force Light to take action. His lackeys miscalculated and allowed me to seize his weapon, the Death Note. I confronted him in front of witnesses and he confessed to everything." Near shrugs very slightly.

L stares balefully for a few moments, the look rolling right off Near's impenetrable exterior. The younger man is quite possibly the worst storyteller that ever existed. A newspaper would give a more stirring account of such a pivotal event with global repercussions.

"What happened to Light? Life in prison?" It is the only reason Near can look so much older, although he had been certain Light would get the death sentence. Near looks at him with a mix of pity and puzzlement.

"Light died that day; his shinigami killed him."

L blinks slowly, so slowly, his eyes falling shut against the brief wash of emotions, useless things that they are. He knows that Light would have died; he is counting on it, in fact. Near is still talking and he looks back up.

"One of his lackeys committed suicide to kill Mello, and the other died in jail a year later."

"How long ago?" Why does he ask? It doesn't matter.

Near looks up as he does a brief calculation. "22 years ago."

22 years.

_Where is Light?_

The answer is obvious, so clear he should have seen it years ago before he wasted so much time.

Time? What is time in this place? He only delayed the inevitable, waiting so long in vain.

Light isn't coming. He won't come, he can't come.

"L?" Near's voice asks again, and L resists the urge to hurt him for sullying the air with his unwelcome voice.

"Go." He says. "Don't wait or you'll lose your chance."

"What will you do?" Even as he asks, Near moves to the door, where the light grows dimmer while they speak. "Why can't you leave?"

"I said _go_." L tries to bite his tongue, but it slips out anyway. "There is nothing for me there." Even Wammy left before he got to this place, after all.

No one was waiting for him.

And he is waiting for no one, it seems.

He looks away as Near vanishes, closing his eyes as the door dissolves. The room fades, the mist returns, and he stands there stupidly.

_Hope_, another one of those worthless human emotions. He should have cut them all out of him years ago, long before Light came along. Light _was_ light, his namesake, and he shed radiance on those corners of L's life that he most wanted to ignore. It is fitting that even in death Light torments him.

His feet take him to the edge that he knows is there, even if he can't always see it. His toes curl around the edge as he stares blindly into the fog that reveals nothing.

Perhaps it is a trick of his imagination, but the clouds around him part to show the black, lightless depths that lie below him. The water's surface is so still that no ripple distorts its obsidian surface, his own reflection looking back at him pitilessly.

A tiny ripple forms below him, the resultant waves deforming his image. He blinks fiercely and leans over, balancing precariously.

All this time, it has been before him. He was blind not to see it before.

There has always been another way out of here. He reaches, overbalancing slowly and watching his mirror image shift as he draws closer. Another ripple distorts his face as his fingers touch the water's skin, breaking it so slowly that he can see the inky depths take hold of his fingers and guide him down.

As his face nears the softly rippling water, it is not the reflection of his own onyx eyes that stare back at him. Inches away, the irises have become caramel, honey, toffee, all those wonderful reminders of the sweet things he so loved.

His hair touches the water first, the surprisingly lukewarm currents sliding across his scalp like fingers. His eyes stare fixedly into the brown ones as he sinks, his eyes and his mouth meeting their counterparts painted across the black canvas. He lets himself be wrapped in that warm embrace as the water closes over him.

L smiles.


	2. Change of Scenery

**Change of Scenery**

-

-

In time, the warmth fades. The fingers cease their combing through his hair and he drifts, heedless of where he is anymore. His surroundings lose their wet, muffling quality, but still he floats. Either his eyes are closed or everything has become black; he cares not. There is honeysuckle in the air, a faint sweetness that is liquid on his tongue.

Beneath his hands, he eventually feels softness, as if his fingers are being dragged through flower petals. He reaches to prolong the sensation, unwilling to go back to the nothingness even if it is numbing.

As if borne by the gentlest spring breeze, he eventually comes to rest in the petals, which now feel like powdery sand along his entire body.

Like a signal to noise, there is sound again, a dry hiss of wind across the desert, unobstructed and ceaseless. It is the susurration of tiny crystals sliding across one another for miles. The air is neither warm nor cool, and the wind brings only the sensation of movement. The taste of honeysuckle has gone, only to be replaced by the stale odor of dust, mold…

…graves.

There is death here.

He opens his eyes to a landscape painted in brown and gray tones. No white, no black, no blue or green. The sky arching overheard is a myriad of grays, swirling lazily without a hint of sunlight breaking through them. The ground he lies on is sand, powdery and fine like flour. The barren landscape stretches for miles in every direction, broken only by hillocks of stones and the odd desiccated corpse of a tree, its broken fingers forever reaching for a sun that doesn't exist.

It is lonely here.

Nothing moves in front of him. He looks to both sides, then all around him, and sees nothing alive.

He has traded one limbo, one waiting place, for another, but this one is far worse than the first. At least the other one was foggy so he couldn't see that there was nothing and no one around him. The vastness of this empty space mocks him.

He stands, his footing hard to find when the ground shifts beneath him. Each step costs him effort as he slides backward for every step he takes forward.

Where is he going?

Does it even matter when there is no concept of direction? There are no landmarks, no sun, and no stars. He walks for hours and the sky does not change. He turns around and sees that his footsteps are vanishing behind him, the powdery sand swallowing the prints marking his existence, his passage here.

He turns around, wondering if he is going in the same direction still, and keeps moving forward. He can't control his feet; they are moving whether or not he wants them to. At least he isn't tired. He could walk all day like this.

The monotony gives him time to think, which he doesn't want as clarity returns to him. He is more aware than ever of what he does not have. He is no longer at the docks he created on the edge of the River Styx, his concept of the place bridging the gap between the worlds. In this barren place, he knows he will not see any more people he knew in life. He forsook them by not taking the ferry, by not accepting Matt's invitation to join him, by refusing the lifelines offered him in a futile wait for someone who was never coming for him.

There is sand in his eyes and it hurts.

He is fated to walk these sands in this realm of death forever, apparently. Perhaps this is what awaits all of those who don't choose to move on. This is his punishment for being indecisive, for entertaining foolish hopes.

He looks up to see that there is something before him. It is only a larger collection of rocks, but it is something different and therefore special. He moves toward it, fighting the pull of the sand against him. The powder changes to granules that allow him better purchase with his toes, and he stops sliding back so frequently.

The rock pile grows in size as he approaches. There is nothing remarkable on this side of it, but as he circles it, he sees something that makes his heart leap.

There is someone- no, some_thing_ sitting there. He stops walking to stare at it, his thumb going to his mouth as he studies it. It has a bull's skull on its head, complete with worn horns and even the creature's spine running down its back. It sits hunched, shrouded in the semi-darkness created by the rock pile as well as a tattered black robe. It is staring into a hole partially underneath the pile, and there are glints of light inside this hole.

"What are you doing?" he asks out of curiosity, and the sound of his own voice almost makes him jump in the relative silence. The creature startles as well, dropping something it is holding as it screeches like a raven.

It rises to its feet before L realizes that it is not wearing a skull, but rather the skull is its head. Tiny yellow lights shine in the void eye sockets and no tongue lolls in that empty mouth as the thing shakes a bony fist, a slim length of yellowed bone or pale wood clenched in its fingers. The sounds coming from it are dry and rasping, but they form words if he listens very closely.

"Are you going to laugh at me for working too hard, like all the others?" The thing asks in mild irritation. It is not upset at him, but he seems to have asked a stupid question. Then the thing leans toward him, the lights in its skull growing brighter as it peers at him.

"What are you doing here? You don't look or smell like all the rest," it continues.

He backs away slightly from the confused creature, which follows him as if to satisfy its curiosity.

"Where is here?" he asks, but before he can clarify his question, his loose jeans catch on a rock half-buried in the sand before he steps on it. The sharp edge bites into the soft flesh of his arch and he falls, biting back a groan of pain.

From his new vantage point at ground level, he sees an object behind the creature, the one it initially dropped when he startled it. After his eyes focus on it through the pain in his foot, he feels the blood flee his face when he recognizes it.

A simple black notebook, the cover blowing open in the ever-present breeze to show pages scrawled with names in various languages.

A Death Note.

"You must be new," the thing's voice grates. "This is the shinigami realm, of course."

-

-

* * *

A/N - I'm trying to get back into the whole story-writing thing again versus script-writing, hence the short chapters.


	3. Denizens of Hell

Denizens of Hell

-

-

The Death Note consumes all of his attention. It is milliseconds before he realizes the creature is talking again.

"I've never met a new one. Didn't know they all smelled so fresh and juicy." It doesn't look interested in eating him so much as picking up its Death Note. "You should probably go see Justyn; he'll know what to do with you."

"Where can I find him?" L gets to his feet anyway so he can run faster if this thing decides to try anything. The arch of his foot smarts; it seems pain here is more substantial than it was in the other place.

"Eh, he's with everyone else, probably. Go that way." It gestures with one bone-plated arm in the direction of a larger hillock that he hasn't noticed yet. "Anyone you ask could probably point him out."

"Thank you." It's not like him to be polite, but this is the first living thing he's seen in all these hours, days, however long he's been walking here. It feels good to have purpose.

"You won't thank me later." The thing cackles, and the noise makes the hairs on his neck prickle. "But you don't have any other options."

It turns and kneels in front of the hole again, peering into the darkness with its hand poised above the Death Note. He waits for a moment to see if it will say more than its dire prediction before leaving, but it stays silent except for mutterings to itself.

The Shinigami Realm? He turns toward the mound that the creature pointed out and starts walking, his steps uneven as he winces in pain every other step.

So there is a separate plain of existence for these creatures. As he looks around, he can see why they would want to come to earth. There is nothing here, no civilization or anything seemingly to entertain oneself. If what that shinigami is doing is _work_, then what do they do with the rest of their time?

The creature certainly fits his idea of a shinigami after he was forced to acknowledge them as real. Rem had looked similar to that thing he just spoke to, with her bony plates, androgynous features, and dry, hoarse voice. He wonders if the whole race is just as rotten and withered-looking. If _everyone else_ is in that direction, just how many are there?

The ground changes again as he walks. Now there are small pebbles and sand under his feet, and if he hadn't walked barefoot almost every day of his life, they might have cut him. All they do now is make him uncomfortable.

He glances around and sees that the other mounds in the distance look similar to the one he approaches, but they are slightly smaller. They are the landscape's only features other than the dead trees.

Maybe this Justyn will know how he can get away from here.

As he walks, he passes a copse of withered trees and shrubbery behind a miniature mound of rocks. He gives it a passing glance, but there is too much shadow to see it clearly. As he turns his head, he hears a pop following by a crunching noise. Another shinigami?

He looks at the hill he has been walking toward before veering slightly toward the trees. Stopping a healthy distance away, he peers into the dimness and is able to make out another figure this time.

"Is Justyn this way?" He doesn't bother with formalities; it's not his way. The shadowy form stops moving. It lifts its head to stare at him, and he notices that this one has hair and skin rather than bony armor.

This shinigami's voice is soft and hissing but its words make the blood slam through his veins. "L Lawliet?"

No one has uttered that name since his childhood. Only Mr. Wammy ever used it, and this _thing_ can't be…? He would never come here, not to this hellish place.

L opens his mouth, but he has no words. His mouth is as dry as the sand he walks through.

"That's an unusual name for a shinigami." It speaks again, and the words puzzle him now. "You must be on your way to be converted." It looks at him with blank eyes. "To be looking for Justyn when you still have your human name, at least."

"You know my name?"

"All shinigami have the Eyes, human. I can see it." Its tone is matter-of-fact.

"What did you mean by converted?" What use is it to hide information in this world? He's dead, he's died twice now, and he's tired of caring about trying to keep his life and his secrets.

The shinigami reaches up and grasps a tree branch in answer. The branch crackles in protest of the weight as the creature pulls itself up.

"Converted, as in turned completely to a shinigami." It coughs, its laughter dulled to a moist death rattle in its bloody chest.

The dry wind carries a charnel-house stench toward him, and he nearly retches at the dark, sickly sweet smell of rot. This shinigami has flesh but it is patches of different colors stitched neatly together, as if harvested from multiple sources. It wears black leathery pants, and one leg is rolled to expose naked shreds of muscle wrapped around bone. One hand clutches another patchwork piece of skin which it was apparently sewing before L asked it anything. A Death Note lies near its bare feet, the cover closed and the pen resting atop it.

The rest is nightmare. The chest is a hole, the blackened and broken ribs exposed in the middle atop a cavity where the sternum and heart should be. It looks as if it was burned and cauterized after the heart was torn out.

Perhaps it was _as_ the heart was ripped out.

He shivers as his eyes travel to the face. It is mostly hidden by lank black hair, but he can see the lines of neat stitches connecting the patches of dull blue, white, and beige skin across its neck and jawline. One line of stitches runs out the side of its mouth, making it look as if it's grinning. A slow drip of black blood runs from where both eyes should be, but they are in shadow. The trails are so dark they seem to carve lines into its cheeks and neck.

Tears.

"You have much to look forward to." The thing hisses in its soft voice before chuckling as it releases the branch and falls to a heap on the ground with a symphony of popping and grinding noises. "Find me again when you're one of us. I want to see what you look like."

It laughs again and L turns away.

It seems the Shinigami Realm breeds madness, though if that is what will happen to his body, he can empathize with it.

It is only after he walks again, the mound in the distance slowly growing closer, that he realizes he is walking to his doom. He is willingly headed toward this Justyn, this shinigami who will make him look like one of _those_. He doesn't want that. He doesn't want to be reduced to little more than a collection of dead flesh, and he does _not_ want a Death Note.

He can't turn away. He knows what will happen and yet his feet now move without his consent. Something now draws him toward this Justyn, to his disgusting fate as one of these mindless creatures.

He can't escape.

* * *

When L nears the small mountain of stones he was directed to so long ago, he realizes that it is not a hill but a rounded shell of rock. It is broken in places to let light into the cavernous area seated 20 or 30 feet below ground. Makeshift steps lead down into the dimness, and his feet take him toward them unerringly.

A burst of raucous laughter rising up from below meets his ears and he jumps, for the silence has become second nature. Other voices join in, either cackling or talking in that rasping croak than he has to strain to understand.

"Death's Head again, Gukku. This time I want my walking stick back."

"I've only had it for two games." The petulant whine makes his ears hurt with its abrasiveness. "At least let me keep it a little longer."

"A win is a win," another voice says with a jingle of metal chains brushing against each other. "Pay up, Gukku."

"You're not supposed to _help_ him, Justyn." _Justyn!_ "He kept my headdress for days last time."

He walks unflinchingly down the stairs to the bottom of the depression, which is rife with broken rock and shadowy caves. There are three shinigami sleeping on piles of rock and in rough shelves in the walls. In the dimness, their features are unclear, but they seem to be mostly covered in bones or made of bones if the dull white glow is any indication. Two of them snore loudly.

A torch gives flickering light to a group of four that are tossing small objects and holding hands of cards. The strange picture gives him the urge to laugh. Playing cards in the land of the dead strikes him as inane.

"Who's back? Is that you, Ryuk?" The whining voice asks as its owner looks in his direction. "Did you bring apples?"

Justyn's voice laughs, a deep booming in the hollow chamber. "Ryuk doesn't walk, fool." He too peers at L, who cannot force himself to stop walking no matter what he does.

"I think someone is coming to see me. It can't fly, at least." Justyn gets lazily to his feet, and a jangling that sounds like a torrent of rain falling accompanies him. L reaches the edge of the firelight and sees that this shinigami is entirely draped in gold chain and jewelry, thus the racket. There is only part of his jawbone exposed by the trinkets crusting him, which are blinding in the shifting torchlight.

"A newbie?" Gukku asks. "He smells too sweet to be one of us."

Justyn cocks his head slightly at L. L can't say anything in response. His jaw is locked shut.

"No, you're not here for me. You're not a shinigami."

L feels the pressure on him to be silent lift, and his feet are his own again as he studies each one for cuts. The force driving him didn't let him rest at all, mercilessly goading him onward. He doesn't seem to be injured, at least. He looks back up at Justyn.

"I'm not a shinigami?" His voice is hoarse from disuse, not whistling like a wind through dead branches as theirs are.

"No. You're human, but I don't know what you're doing here. I'll go ask the King."

Justyn wanders off into the darkness on the other side of the pit, and Gukku and the others resume their game as if L isn't even standing there. After a few minutes, however, one of them pipes up, "Go sit somewhere else. That smell is distracting me." When L doesn't move, the creature turns toward him. "Go sit over there. You smell like apples, so unless you want us to pull you apart and bet on your limbs, move away."

"Ah, there's no fun in that. He'll just put himself back together like the others."

"I know but it's so fun to see them looking so upset."

L backs away as the three share a loud laugh that sounds like a pack of hyenas barking. His neck and arms prickle fiercely until he moves to the other side of the room in the direction that Justyn went. There is another set of steps here and a yawning pit to one side. He walks to a rocky shelf and sits on it, feeling suddenly weary, as if he has walked for days without a rest. The stone promises to be uncomfortable, but he pulls his knees up before him anyway and rests his forehead on his hands.

Only now does he realize that he has not eaten or drank for days, but strangely he doesn't want anything. Just sleep. He's so tired…

* * *

"Hey, you there, L." His name makes him start awake in time to see a gold encrusted hand reaching for him. He scrambles away, his legs half-asleep from poor circulation, until he hits the back of his rock shelf.

"Calm down!" the voice laughs. "I just got back from talking to the King. He wants to see you."

L edges off his rocky bed and brushes dust off his clothes.

"What for?"

"He didn't tell me. He just hasn't heard of a case like yours in a long time and wants to see you. Come with me."

Justyn gestures with a waterfall of sound and sparkling lights, and L follows.

If nothing else, seeing the King will give him something to do. He can well imagine dying of boredom in a place such as this. No computers, no television, no crimes to solve. How would anyone survive this?

He follows Justyn up the stairs and, hearing chatter behind him, looks back for a moment. The three shinigami are sitting there, in the same gloom with the torch burning at the same level, still playing cards and betting.

What a meaningless existence.

-

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* * *

A/N - I'm using the "No Plot, No Problem" approach to get this out fairly quickly. No editing and not much plotting beforehand makes this quick to post. Enjoy? **YWMNBN**, is this divergent enough from your own take?


	4. The Folly of Gods

The Folly of Gods

* * *

"_There's been a mistake! I don't belong here!"_

"_I think you're exactly where you need to be." The lazy, slow rumble drowns out cries that seem juvenile in comparison, an adult scolding a child who knows no better._

"_I didn't do anything wrong! I only wanted to help…" The voice diminishes, its owner shamed at his own words. _

"_You are no god to make those decisions." Claws drag across stone, a deep grinding that escalates to a shriek. "And you are not the first to make that mistake."_

"_He said he wouldn't take my soul! That's the only reason…" The voice whispers, barely audible but for the giant's acute hearing. Fear makes it quaver as one claw hovers over the child, the single digit enough to crush him._

"_And he won't." Teeth the length of swords glimmer with saliva in the dimness as the monster grins. _

_A mindless wailing spirals out of the cave, rising unheeded into the night sky. _

_In time, even that dies away._

_

* * *

_The sky is darker when L emerges and the shadows make the landscape more ominous. The land from one horizon to another is a mass of shades, unidentifiable shapes that seem to move in the ceaseless wind.

He shivers, an echo of fear humming through his veins as he slows. He wonders how many of these shapes are alive and how many are merely trees and rocks.

Justyn is quite alive in contrast, his golden tones not diminished in the slightest by the dimness, a corrupted metal angel in the midst of this wasteland. The sparkling jewels of his eyes turn to L when he forgets to keep walking.

"Don't keep the King waiting."

L belatedly starts walking again, the sand sliding so he constantly has to pull his feet out of the hollows he creates.

Justyn leads him to another shell of rock. This one glitters like the sun through murky water, swirls of black and grey moving sluggishly across its surface. It must pass for beauty here. A makeshift throne carved from unreflective rock is near the entrance and Justyn sits in it, looking like a king himself. He points to a stairway leading down into darkness.

"That way. Get going."

L moves forward, as if he is again compelled to walk to his doom. Warm air drifts from the cave's mouth, and the temperature change makes his skin prickle fiercely. It sounds like something breathing, something far larger than he can comprehend.

The steps are rough; the gravel and slivers of rock at the edge of each stair hurt his feet. He can't see in the dark as he descends and is forced to rely on touch to find his footing.

"Come inside, L Lawliet."

The voice is low and booming as a wave of heated air washes over him. The force of it ruffles his hair slightly. Perhaps it is the use of his name that bothers him more than the voice itself but his breathing accelerates anyway.

He is already dead; what more can the King do to him? His fear is pointless.

He edges down the stairs until his questing toes find no more and he stops. He has no desire to step into a pit or blunder into the beast itself. The air is warm and wet and he can almost feel the proximity of something massive not far in front of him.

"You must be wondering why you're here." The rumble comes again as the stink of char and sulfur fills his nose.

He scowls faintly. "Yes." Why else would he be in this cave? Does the King enjoy theatrics?

"You did not have to come; you're not one of my shinigami."

"I thought I was choosing my death." It doesn't shame him to admit this like it should. His pride is worth less than nothing now.

The King laughs, the sound both a throaty purr and a tremor in the earth, and L catches a glimpse of light reflecting off golden reptilian eyes. The slitted pupils are larger than his head and hover at least ten feet in the air.

"You only _die_ once. Anything after that only takes you from one plane to another." Given the King's indolent tone, L guesses that he is lying on the ground and he again revises his estimate of the beast's size.

"What other planes are there?" As long as the King is willing to humor L by answering his questions, he will take advantage of it.

"Earth, the Shinigami Realm, the bridge, and greater Mu. Perhaps more, but that is not for me to say."

"Where should I be?"

"Exactly where you are, human. What I wish to know is why you chose this place." The King speaks slowly, as if he is never interrupted and has a surfeit of time. L can hear the wet slap of the King's tongue against his teeth, so total is the silence around him. Even he feels the compulsion not to speak as long as the King addresses him.

"Shall I tell you?" Laughter lurks somewhere in the King's throat and he continues. "There have been others who chose this destination, mistakenly or not. Their reasons vary, but often there is a common thread." Golden eyes peer down at L with a pitiless stare.

"Who have you lost that you hope to find here?"

L stills, only breathing the dusty air in and out. It was not his intent to come here looking for anyone. Maybe this is nothing but a huge misunderstanding; he should have taken the ferry after all.

But if others have come looking as well… L has no answers that he is willing to admit. The vain hopes that he can feel stirring will only hurt more if he gives voice to them so he looks for a distraction.

"What if I _was_ one of your shinigami?" Disgust crawls through him as he remembers Rem and the others he has already met. Dim echoes of humanity. Soulless. Purposeless.

"_You have much to look forward to." _The mad shinigami's laughter rings in his ears.

"Are you offering yourself? New ones always come when my ranks diminish." A grin stretches wider than L is tall, faintly luminescent as if an ember burns in the King's throat.

"I would rather remain human."

"You won't be saying that forever. Living here as a human is difficult and in time, you too will ask to be changed. Then I will owe you a Death Note and_ I_ will dictate the terms of your payment."

He has no desire to find out what this payment is.

"_Have_ new shinigami come recently?" L asks instead. This would at least give him something to do here, somewhere to start. Hope's poison is already swimming through his veins, and for a moment he wonders if surrendering these wretched human emotions would be so terrible. After all, isn't that what he tried to suppress his entire life? Is being soulless any different from being a machine?

If only he could give up the emotions and keep his body. Hope and all her useless sisters should have died during all that wasted time back in Limbo.

"I have been alive for millennia." The King snorts disdainfully at his inquiry. "'Recently' means nothing to me and I always get new shinigami. Besides, telling you would rob me of the joy of watching you stumble around.

"I will tell you this, L Lawliet. My shinigami have mentioned you before, your name and… _others_."

To L's consternation, before he can even open his mouth the King laughs, the sound like a roar of thunder in the enclosed space. L closes his eyes against the burning sulfur and covers his ears with his hands.

"Now go. That's enough excitement for one day, though do come amuse me some other time. Tell me all about your _quest_." The King sneers at the last, the disdain in his voice obvious.

L backs away quickly as a vast hissing fills the chamber. One heel slams into the steps and he turns to bound up them, breathing hard. He rushes most of the way up before he realizes it is just the sound of thousands of scales sliding over each other, not the sound of pursuit.

His steps grow inexplicably weary as his head reaches the level of the ground outside; the fear that so seldom surfaces always makes a fool of him when it does. He has learned little from the King and found few answers, only more questions.

The rushing jingle of Justyn rising to his feet greets L as he emerges.

"He invited you back. Most shinigami only meet the King but once." Justyn sounds amused as he turns away. L watches him go for a moment before reluctantly shuffling through the sand after him.

Justyn adds over his shoulder without stopping. "Talk to Ryuk and Redival if you want to know more than the King told you. Otherwise, you have very little to do here, unless you like gambling."

L wants to ask where to find food or water but upon further reflection, he is neither thirsty nor hungry. He is tired, but it seems perfectly normal for shinigami to sleep. Perhaps here he doesn't require the same things to survive that he did on Earth.

"Where can I find them?" The word _Ryuk_ sounds vaguely familiar. Perhaps he heard it said before, but by whom?

"They're almost always on Earth and they're more talkative than the King. Ryuk is a troublemaker and Redival is… _newer_." Justyn's grin is a further baring of his already-exposed teeth through the gold jewelry. "It's impossible to remember when new shinigami get here, but he's not as old as some."

"Can I _go_ to Earth?" Why hasn't this occurred to him yet? Obviously Rem was on Earth along with others, if each Death Note had a single owner.

That makes Justyn stop in his tracks, tilting his head curiously. "I have no idea. You have no wings, but maybe you could fly with someone else if they'll take you." Justyn's dismissive tone seems to end the conversation, and he heads back in the direction of the shinigami who were gambling.

L slows as something registers in his memory.

If Ryuk was always on earth and L had heard his name before, was he one of the Kiras' shinigami? Had either Misa or Light said it during their incarceration?

No, not during their incarceration. Light had spoken the name when they were still chained together. Ryuk must have been _Light's_ shinigami.

* * *

Despite all of L's wishing for it, Light had not once talked in his sleep during the months that he had been chained to L. L had watched from the other bed, waiting for the vulnerability of slumber to give him even a single clue to Light's other identity. He had seen nothing except how well Light slept, guileless and at peace.

The _murderer._

The night Higuchi died, L finally got what he was waiting for. He could see that Light had changed even if he couldn't explain it to anyone else. Light's scream in the helicopter was like nothing L had ever heard out of him, and he wasn't even looking at the shinigami outside. If anything, Light's gaze was unfocused, turned inward as if he had just realized something of earth-shattering import. Afterward he was too cool, too collected in contrast to that display of horror.

The changes only magnified after that. Light was still determined and earnest on the surface, seemingly transparent with honesty, but that time it had truly felt like an act. Light was trying just a little too hard. No one but L could have noticed for he was the only one who had spent every waking moment with Light, looking for just such a slip.

Hours after daybreak, the adrenaline from the night before finally ran out and even those police who didn't normally stay at headquarters retreated to a bedroom, exhausted. L wasn't tired at all; he was too busy watching this new Light, doubly aware of everything he did.

Nothing unusual happened until after they had both gone to their beds. L stared off into the corner until Light's breathing evened out with sleep, and only then did L refocus on Light, performing his nightly vigil. Light's eyes had just begun to flutter with REM sleep when he breathed out the word: _Ryuk._ Had he known then that Ryuk was a name, it would have sounded like Light was summoning him.

However, the isolated word meant nothing to L, and Light had said it so softly that L almost convinced himself that it was nonsense, the last foundering of a mind losing a battle against dreams. L himself was so strung-out on nerves, caffeine, and residual horror that he could have been hearing things. It was long past the time when a normal person would have started hallucinating.

The next day, the team essentially forced L to let Light free, and six days later…

L lost.

Twenty-seven years later, L lost again, played for a fool _again_ by Light.

Why was he looking for him?

-

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* * *

A/N - This has been waiting around for me to post it long enough. Ah, well. Thanks, **recipe**, for letting me bounce ideas off you all the time and reading this. I'm still waiting for yours!


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